poison paradise
by starfuckers requiem
Summary: 'Cause I licked a little skin like a fear in my bed. —Massie/Derrick


shout-out to nala and susanna for their help, lessthanthree.

non-explicit sex scenes coming up, so hide your kids.

**poison paradise**

He runs his fingers along her sides making her squirm beneath him. She's dazzling as she arches her back, not that he notices; he's drunk, they're both too drunk, with buzzing in their ears and a carnal desperateness. His breath hitches erratically as her slender hand feathers down his stomach, dipping between his legs. There are no words spoken; only gasps and pants as he flips them over and fills her with all the things he's done wrong.

He doesn't remember her name.

When he wakes up, he's alone.

.

.

.

Derrick doesn't particularly enjoy clubs, but he likes the alcohol and the sex and his friends insist, so he comes.

He sits at the bar, half-heartedly flirting with the bartender, who's trying far too hard, and sucking down a glass of rum. He swivels the stool to observe the mass of sweaty bodies on the dance floor and catches golden eyes and secrets hidden by a rim of glitter. The breathtaking experience slams back into him and he relives the sweet taste of her skin, her fingers through his hair, how she bit the sensitive area below his ear. She moves like flash photography between strobe lights until she reaches him and trails a finger up his leg.

He shivers, involuntarily. She's dangerous and alluring and satisfies a craving he didn't know he had.

So he buys her a drink.

.

.

.

Sometime after they've finished riding down from the waves of their release, sometime after 3 AM, he wakes up. Squinting through blurry eyes, he finds her gliding like fluid around his room, picking up her carelessly tossed aside clothes. Her lithe silhouette is outlined by the moonlight as it floats out of the room, without looking back. The sound of running water snaps on. She emerges from the washroom with steam chasing behind, an unlit cigarette and her lip between her teeth.

Soon after, a slam of the door signals her departure.

.

.

.

He finds himself at a bar, downing shot after shot after shot. The perfume of brown sugar and jasmine is unforgettable, the image of chestnut hair and pouty lips stain the back of his eyelids and he tries to lose it all over again.

It smells like smoke and fuckups, but he's used to it by now.

.

.

.

By Thursday, he gives in, stumbling into the club like a trance. She dances on the outskirts of the crowd, balancing on skyscraper heels, head tossed back in a laugh.

.

She whispers emptiness into the crook of his neck and digs her blood-red nails into his back as he drives into her repeatedly. It's primal, frantic and everything they need. She screams and he lets go and she collapses into him, moulding into his body like melting ice. Crumbling away, she slurs incoherently and he stares at her silently.

This time, it's him that leaves, regrets and all.

.

.

.

He doesn't see her for 3 months; chains himself down with lies and promises. Cameron is constantly pestering him about the state he's in, like shit.

For Derrick, it's all fragmented hookups; heated kisses and provocative touching before he realizes who he's with. It's possible, he learns, to fall in love with a stranger.

Instead, he wastes away beside Cam and his girlfriend, a peppy Blonde named Claire, as they coo sweet assurances to each other. He's too gone to care that he's a third-wheel, that he's intruding and unwanted.

So he shuffles alongside them one day, while they're walking down the street, intertwined hands swinging, rosy cheeks and bright eyes. He ignores it all, the thinly veiled looks of pity and annoyance. There's a flash of amber and lace, and the tinkling of bells as she pushes out of a store with her hip. Away from the lights and sounds and colours of the club of so long ago, she looks incredulously different with only a swipe of mascara and strawberry lip gloss. Her downcast eyes glance up and she stares at him, gripping a flute case and sheet music and an armful of the most obscure literature. Her chin tilts upwards, barely nodding to him; a ghost of a smile curves on her face, remnants of something lost and found.

But she doesn't say anything, doesn't stop, just steadily holds his gaze as she passes him, leaving him wondering if he's been hallucinating.

Cam turns back to him, noticing Derrick's paused steps, and peers in the direction she's gone. Something passes between them, the way best friends just know, and he snorts. He twists his head towards the retreating figure with wind-tousled hair.

"Go. Dumbass."

And uncertainly, hesitantly, he obliges. His strides grow longer with confidence until he's walking beside her, hands thrust deep in his pockets. He takes a deep breath and smirks. There's a kind of spark in her eyes that wasn't there before, all the times in the club, and he knows he can't, won't forget her. So he opens his mouth, "I'm Derrick. "

.

.

.

"Massie. Massie Block."


End file.
